


Filename: the Reichenbach Fall v.1

by noirhound



Series: Folder name: Drafts (unpublished) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, John Watson's Blog, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, M/M, POV John Watson, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 20:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18395651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noirhound/pseuds/noirhound
Summary: On John Watson's laptop is a folder full of bits and pieces of blog entries that he's cut from the final post; they ruin the flow of the story (he isn't brave enough to post them) but he won't scrap them completely because they might be useful later (he can't even bear to look at them anymore).~~~“This one’s my cab,” said Sherlock, gaze shifting from focused to faraway, and I knew that he was quickly retreating into his Mind Palace. “You take the next one.” He climbed into the cab that I had flagged down and slammed the door shut without further explanation“Why?” I asked, frowning, already annoyed by him, although I will admit that it did not take much from him to annoy me. The cab was pulling away from the curb and he was leaning back into the seat, steepling his long fingers under his chin. He glanced at me through the window, and his expression conveyed every word without him speaking a single one: don’t be an idiot.“Because you might talk, and I need to think. ” With that affectionate parting remark, Sherlock was gone, and I was left to my own devices. Again.





	Filename: the Reichenbach Fall v.1

**Author's Note:**

> posting a super quick first part that I hammered out just because I watched trf and ugly cried at six in the morning again.

“This one’s my cab,” said Sherlock, gaze shifting from focused to faraway, and I knew that he was quickly retreating into his Mind Palace. “You take the next one.” He climbed into the cab that I had flagged down and slammed the door shut without further explanation.

 

“Why?” I asked, frowning, already annoyed by him, although I will admit that it did not take much from him to annoy me. The cab was pulling away from the curb and he was leaning back into the seat, steepling his long fingers under his chin. He glanced at me through the window, and his expression conveyed every word without him speaking a single one: _don’t be an idiot._

 

“Because you might talk, and I need to _think._ ” With that affectionate parting remark, Sherlock was gone, and I was left to my own devices. _Again._

 

Not for the first time in our companionship I wondered if, instead of returning to Baker Street in another cab like Sherlock had asked -- or more accurately, _decided without my consent_ \-- if I could simply find a sandwich shop or something and stay there. I’d be content to eat and watch football reruns until it got late, or until Sherlock noticed my absence. I would say whichever came first, but I think it’s safe to assume that if I was gone all day, Sherlock would have been none the wiser.

 

In my experience, he could often go a good many days without noticing my not being around the flat. He once, quite memorably, become surprised and betrayed in equally absurd measures when I returned home from the train station after a weeklong visit to a recently-retired Army friend in Sussex. He'd been “talking to me”, of course, and when I asked if the lack of a reply perhaps clued him in to my absence, he’d shrugged it off, saying that he had assumed he had done something to annoy me again, and I, as a result, was giving him the silent treatment. He couldn't be bothered to find out what it was he had done to annoy me in the first place and apologize, however. “The game was on!” was his argument.

 

To be fair, the case that week had come after one of his infamous “dry spells”; this particular gap between jobs had been longer than usual, and he must have been completely enraptured, _enamored_ by said case, as he always is with the Work. Still, that would hardly justify his behavior, but then again I find that I’d stopped trying to justify his behavior and simply be in awe of his skill, and offer my help whenever I can. You must understand that there is no real way of rationalizing a man like Sherlock Holmes. I once attempted to, but found that it could not be done, and gave it up. His moods, his whims, and his very _personality_ are liable to change on the turn of a half-crown. Trying to make sense of him is like trying to quell the tides, or hold a breeze in your hands. It’s maddening. But, I digress.

 

I walked home. God knows I needed the exercise. It was good long walk (possibly I had underestimated the distance, but no matter) and I needed to clear my head, anyway. I pondered the events of the day as nightfall swallowed London, the only sound apart from the throbbing of the pulse of the city itself was my feet on the cobbles.

 

If Moriarty had one simple line of computer code, a _key_ , that could supposedly break open any door in the world, then nothing was really safe anymore, was it? He could stroll into any bank, open up whichever accounts he pleased, empty them as he so desired, and walk right back out. Hell, he could even do it remotely. If he had in his employ men to do his grunt work? He'd never have to leave his hiding place at all.

 

If Sherlock was right at the trial (and you know that in the balance of probability, he is rarely ever wrong, so we must assume that he is right) about Moriarty being a spider at the center of a web, then this code made him more untouchable than he was before. Essentially he now held a gun to the head of every government in the world with no repercussions. I shuddered, but not from the cold.

 

And the kidnapping… oh _god_ . It was morbid, jarring, downright _horrifying_ to see how far Moriarty was willing to take this little “game” of his. Dragging innocent children into it as though they were playthings. There were two of them, siblings: Max and Claudette. They’d been taken from their boarding school by one of Moriarty’s men. We did find them eventually, though, huddled together in the dark in an abandoned sweet factory. Probably told to stay put and be quiet by whoever took them; the children had poisoning from chocolates that were wrapped in mercury-lined paper. Max was delirious when we got to them. But they’re being treated now, and have been reunited with their parents.

 

I’m glad that we found them when we did, and that was in no small part thanks to Sherlock’s sheer brilliance: would you believe that he deduced the location of the factory from a couple of linseed oil-footprints? I can. He chipped off pieces of the footprints from the floorboards -- wood and all -- and broke them down with chemicals in the lab at St. Bart’s to detect a specific kind of material from each piece: chalky soil, red brick, vegetation, and even a glycerol molecule! Once he had enough data, he sent word to his Homeless Network to find locations that fit the bill, and it was not long after that Sherlock decided that one of them had found a match. I found myself running after him towards a cab, surrounded by NSY officers in dispatch vehicles, hoping to any god that happened to be listening that the children were all right.

 

I must’ve been heard by someone, because we found them at the location Sherlock said they’d be at, and they were alive. Sick and scared out of their minds but _alive_ and otherwise unhurt _._

 

Sherlock had been absolutely amazing. I told him as such, and he smiled as he always did, but there was something else. Something almost sorrowful, I could have sworn it. I didn’t think much of it then, but now, after everything…

 

Maybe I should have. Noticed, I mean, or asked him about it. I pride myself on my ability to read people, after all, and if I couldn’t even read him -- my best friend -- then what ability did I have that I could boast about?

 

Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. Looking back on that day, that week, ever since Sherlock got that text from Moriarty… the signs were all there. I’m only seeing them now. If I had noticed earlier, _done_ something -- _anything_ about them, would things be different today?

 

I’d rather not think about that.

 

There were, of course, skeptics. People who always thought the absolute worst of Sherlock. Donovan was among them, loud as ever. I overheard her implying that Sherlock was somehow involved with the kidnapping as I was leaving Lestrade’s office. In my defense, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then again I don’t particularly care what she thinks, except when she’s trying to undermine someone, especially Sherlock. Whatever. I don’t need to justify myself.

 

And then there was the matter of Greg coming up to me after the funeral and telling me that Donovan and Anderson had accused Sherlock of being a fraud. They often argued this point, but I always assumed it was because they felt threatened or somehow felt like their intelligence was insulted by him. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

 

(Donovan, Anderson: if you are reading this, I hope you know what you did. I hope you understand that what you did is part of the reason why Sherlock is -- is gone now. I hope you remember every horrible thing you ever told him, every horrible name you ever called him, and I hope you find it in within your hearts to feel ashamed of yourselves. Show him that courtesy, if nothing else.)

 

I know Donovan doesn’t trust Sherlock, never has, and she is always more than happy to inform me that I shouldn't get taken in by his “theatrics”. Those are the facts. Her assuming his involvement with the kidnapping is the obvious conclusion. Maybe she goes into every crime scene with half a mind believing that Sherlock put the body there. I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

 

Anyway, I don’t believe that Sherlock was involved. I don’t. There has to be another explanation.

 

I do, however, believe _in_ Sherlock Holmes, and while he may be the most insufferable dick I’ve ever met and will ever meet, he would never stoop so low. For one thing his enormous height would make it difficult, and for another he does have empathy -- much as he denies it.

 

In any case, he had clearly been shaken by Claudette’s reaction to seeing him. We went in to talk to her, and she took one look at Sherlock and started screaming bloody murder. I never saw a man turn as pale as he did when Lestrade was roaring at us to “GET OUT!”, and that is really saying something; bear in mind that I was an Army doctor. I think the reality of it hit him then, that there were lives other than his at stake here. It always occurred to him a little later than it would for everyone else, but I don’t blame him. His mind was straight as an arrow when we were on a case. His laser-sharp focus was only fixed on getting from _not-knowing_ to _knowing_ ; from point A to point B in the quickest and most efficient way possible, and everything else that couldn’t contribute was a distraction.

 

I’m starting to understand why he had commandeered an entire cab all by himself and left me to find my own way home. If my ordinary head was in such a whirlwind about all this, then who knows in what state his self-described rocket-brain was in? Probably a maelstrom, to say the least. I found myself glad that the flat was divested of cigarettes and seven percent-solutions; even the great Sherlock Holmes had a breaking point, and I wouldn't want him to arrive at it with any of his… old friends (if I may) in arm’s reach.

 

I must apologize for being an unreliable narrator. I’m reading over what I’ve written so far, and there’s about two or three relevant paragraphs. The rest is complete trollop.

  
There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t know how to say it, and I don’t know how to tell this story without all the extra padding of me going off on wide tangents and rambling on and on about Sherlock. If nobody believes in him, I want him to know that I do. Nothing can change that. No _body_ can change that. I believed in him the minute he and I met, and every minute after, until we ran out of minutes together (I thought we’d have more _time_.) And you’d better bloody believe that I’ll go on believing in him till I run out of minutes, too, and maybe even longer than that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @renskylos and on twitter @thebodegaman so now there are two handles where you can hit me up to talk about Sherlock :)
> 
> As always, concrit, comments, and kudoses are loved and cherished to death, so send away, please.


End file.
